


Awakening

by Lindenharp



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: But not committed by either of our boys, Dubious Consent, Lewis Fright Fest 2016, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 05:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8433136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp
Summary: Dreams can come true... but that's not necessarily a good thing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks (as always), to Wendymr for speedy, last-minute beta services.
> 
> Explaining the dubcon tag involves a spoiler. See the end note if you think this might be an issue for you.

"Think the hotel did us a favour, losing our reservation," Robbie says as he walks into the cottage. "We'll be more comfortable here than most of the coppers at the conference."

 "It will certainly be quieter," his sergeant agrees, following him into the open-plan kitchen-lounge. "Which bedroom do you want, sir?"

 He shrugs. "Six of one, half a dozen of the other." The two bedrooms are nearly identical, except for the colour of the duvet covers: double bed, bedside table, small wardrobe. He chooses the room on the right, preferring dark green to mustard-brown. The framed painting hanging opposite the bed is of a young woman in a hooded robe standing in a walled garden, hands clasped beneath her chin as she gazes coyly at the viewer. Her flowing, embroidered robe looks vaguely Middle Eastern, though the blonde hair and pale skin might have been copied from a porcelain shepherdess. A small brass plaque attached to the lower part of the frame is engraved in graceful script: 'In the Garden of the Hareem'. _Sentimental Victorian rubbish._

Hathaway goes to the left, placing his bag beside the bed. His room is decorated with a reproduction of Landseer's _Monarch of the Glen_. "I'm surprised this place was available, considering that the hotel was fully booked."

Robbie shrugs. "Apparently, the owner doesn't usually rent it to strangers. Just our good luck that the bloke at the hotel is his nephew, and was willing to vouch for us." They'd have been in a pickle otherwise, as their conference fees had already been paid. He'd been pleased when the clerk had suggested this solution. And yet, an wistful thought had drifted through the back of his mind: what if there'd been just one room left, and he and James had to share it? A room... or even a bed...

 _Robbie Lewis, you're a dirty old man—and a fool, besides_. He doesn't need the mandatory sexual harassment seminars to tell him that these are wildly inappropriate thoughts to be having about his sergeant. Even assuming the lad fancies men as well as women, there's no reason he should be interested in his middle-aged DI. He drags his mind back to reality. "Right. I reckon we have just enough time to wash and change before the welcome dinner. Do you want the bathroom first?"

* * *

The welcome dinner is a pleasant surprise. The inevitable chicken is properly cooked for once, the keynote speaker is not terminally boring, and Robbie bumps into several old colleagues in the after-dinner meet-and-greet. Knowing that James will drive them back to the cottage, he allows Charlie Staunton and Tom Kemp to lead him into the hotel bar, and spends a pleasant hour reminiscing. He catches occasional glimpses of James chatting to other junior officers, both men and women. They're his sort of people: energetic, university-educated, sharply-dressed. _Young_. He stares down into his beer. Maybe the lad will meet someone. He deserves to meet someone.

It's late by the time they return to the cottage. James bids him good night and settles in to read in bed. Robbie gets only a brief glimpse of the book before James closes his door. The title has the word 'ontological' in it. _That'd send me off quicker than Sleepeaze._

Robbie doesn't bother with the ceiling light in his room; the small bedside lamp provides enough illumination for him to change into pyjamas and lay out his clothing for tomorrow. The frosted glass shade casts odd, swirling patterns of light and shadow on the walls. Odder still is the transformation of the Victorian painting. The cloaked figure in the garden looks taller, leaner—not a blonde maiden, after all, but a young man with pale hair. It could be James, if James was dressed up like a character out of the Arabian Nights.

_He's not sure what awakens him. When he opens his eyes, the figure at the foot of his bed is just a shadow that barely stands out from the surrounding darkness. As his eyes adjust, he sees that it's a man, draped in a bathrobe or dressing gown._

_"James?" The figure moves forward. It_ is _James. The silhouette is unmistakable. "James, what—"_

_James comes a step closer. "You want me," he says simply._

_Oh, God! He knows. Robbie feels his face burn with embarrassment. He wants to apologise, to explain, but he can't find words to speak._

_"And I want you." James shakes himself free of the long, loose garment. It falls to the floor, revealing that he is fully, gloriously naked._

_And now Robbie understands. There's a word for this sort of thing, where a person dreams, and is somehow aware that he's dreaming. James would know what it's called—Real-James, that is. But this is Dream-James, looking at him with desire in his eyes, and Robbie isn't going to waste time on words. He gestures at the empty space beside him in silent invitation, and James comes to him, swiftly, eagerly. He lies down beside Robbie. "I want you," James repeats, and then there is no more talking, because James's lips are pressed against his._

_What follows is a blur of need and delight. James's clever hands are stroking him through his pyjamas. He thinks vaguely about taking them off, but that would mean that James would have to pause what he's doing. Besides, the caresses through soft cotton feel amazing. At the same time, his own hands are exploring James's bare skin. He pulls free from the kiss and lets his mouth explore, too. He nuzzles against the faint traces of stubble on James's chin, then licks and nibbles his way down the tender skin of the neck. It's only a dream, but while it lasts, he will fill his senses with James: discover the taste and the scent of his arousal, feel the athlete's strength in those long limbs, watch his face and hear him gasp Robbie's name when he finally surrenders to pleasure._

* * *

"Sir? Sir, are you awake?" James's voice is muffled by the closed door of his bedroom. "We ought to be leaving soon."

Robbie blinks. Why is James in his flat? His eyes focus, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings: beige walls, green duvet, dark oak wardrobe. _Right. The conference. No room at the hotel... cottage._ "I'm awake," he calls back. _Thought I set an alarm_. He fumbles for his mobile on the bedside table and blinks again. _I didn't drink_ that _much last night_. He doesn't usually sleep so late, or feel this muzzy-headed the morning after a few pints with friends. They'll get to the conference on time if he hustles. Robbie's nose informs him that James has made coffee. He'll down a quick cup, then get another at the hotel and take it into the first session. And he doesn't need a shower—a few swipes with a wet flannel will be enough to make him presentable.

He throws off the duvet, sits up—and hisses with startled annoyance as the sudden movement tugs some of the hair in a sensitive place. _What the hell?_ Even as he cautiously stretches the waistband of his pyjama bottoms to peer inside, he recognizes the sticky sensation. He hasn't woken up in this state since he was a young man. He glances at the painting on the wall. As the young man in his hooded cloak smiles knowingly down at him, Robbie remembers. _It seemed so real_... 

It was a dream. Just a vivid dream. The results are real, though, and he'll need to shower, even if it makes him late. He starts to walk towards the door, then curses under his breath, and detours to put on his bathrobe. He doesn't really need it; his unexpected mess isn't visible through the pyjama bottoms. Even if it were, there's no way that James could guess the cause. But the thought of being seen by the unwitting star of his erotic dream has him wrapping himself up in the robe as snugly as possible. He even ties the cloth belt.

James wishes him a good morning as he scuttles past. Robbie hopes his own curt reply and averted gaze are put down to annoyance at himself for oversleeping. He sets a personal speed record for showering and dressing, and emerges from the bathroom feeling marginally better.

Robbie stays silent in the car on the way to the hotel, and his bagman wisely doesn't try to start a conversation. He avoids looking at James, for fear that he'll give himself away by staring. As he gazes out the window, he barely registers the bleak November fields. Instead, he keeps seeing the look on the face of Dream-James as he writhed in pleasure, and wonders if the real man would be as starkly beautiful.

He tries to push the thought away. He'll never know the answer to that question. Besides, he has to work with the man. He needs to go back to the way things were, with his impossible desires hidden from everyone, even himself.

It gets easier once they're at the hotel. Coffee in hand (finally!), he can focus on the conference. Even the most boring speakers are welcome distractions. And it helps that he and James spend part of the day in separate sessions. When they reunite at lunch, Robbie feels almost normal. He listens to James's snarky evaluation of one of the presenters while he drinks his third and fourth cups of coffee. For some reason, he's fair paggered, though he hasn't done anything more strenuous than walking from one meeting room to the next.

Naturally, James notices. "Are you all right?"

"Feeling a bit knackered," he admits.

"Did you not sleep well?"

He shrugs. "Probably just missing my orthopaedic mattress."

James looks as though he wants to ask another question. Instead, he shares his rather pointed opinion of 'An Interdisciplinary Approach to Situational Action Theory in the Exurban Environment'.

He manages to get through the afternoon sessions without falling asleep in his chair, but after dinner, he turns down Charlie and Tom's invitation to join them for drinks. He tells his sergeant, "Just drop me at the cottage, and you can go back to the hotel." No reason that James should twiddle his thumbs all evening just because his DI is a tired old man.

Loyally, James insists that he'd much rather stay in and catch up on his reading. It might even be true, Robbie thinks. "May as well get an early night. It'll be a long drive back to Oxford tomorrow."

* * *

_He must have fallen asleep quickly, because it seems that he's scarcely turned off the bedside lamp when Dream-James appears. This time, he doesn't wait for an invitation. He throws off his long robe and stretches out beside Robbie. Without a word, he reaches around and begins to fondle Robbie's arse with one hand while the other strokes his rapidly stiffening prick. He tries to keep still, keep quiet, but the pleasure is too strong and raw. "Can't... take any more... James!"_

"Robbie!"

The overhead light snaps on, and Robbie blinks in the unexpected glare. When his vision clears, he sees James in the doorway, dressed only in blue pyjama bottoms. "James? What's wrong?" He follows the other man's gaze to the far side of the bed where Dream-James is sitting. With more fluid grace than any human could manage, he—it—unfolds itself and rises, still naked, and shimmering faintly. _Oh, God, I'm not dreaming!_

James-in-the-doorway crosses himself and mutters something that sounds like a prayer.

Dream-James laughs. "I'm afraid that won't work," it drawls in a voice that sounds like Real-James at his snootiest. "You're not the first foolish mortal to gabble some Latin at me. _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Exorcizamos te, omnis immunde spíritus_." It glides into the centre of the room, where it can smirk at both of them at once. "I am not afraid of your Christ or your hosts of angels droning their tedious chants of praise. Why should I be?" 

"Evil always fears the light," Real-James says shakily.

"But I am not evil," the thing protests, still grinning. "What have I done, other than to give him what he was too cowardly to ask for, and what you were too cowardly to offer? I gave him what he desired, and took very little in return."

"What did you do to me?" Robbie demands hoarsely.

"Other than pleasuring you? I fed lightly—oh, so very lightly—on your vital force." It makes a lewd stroking gesture. "I could do so many times and you would take no harm from it, only enjoyment."

Robbie chokes back a surge of nausea. _Not just in my bed, but in my mind_... "Go away! I don't want you!" 

It chuckles. "Is it better to suffer needlessly? To desire what you can't have?"

"He can have me if he wants me." James takes several steps forward. His words are aimed at Dream-James, but he's looking into Robbie's eyes. "I've been his for a very long time."

Dream-James hisses like a furious cat, and shouts, "No!"

"Yes," James says steadily. He holds his hands out to Robbie, palms upward. "Will you...?"

Robbie clasps the offered hands in his own. "I... yes. Course I will. But, James—" He's not exactly sure what he was about to say, but the decision becomes unnecessary when James's mouth covers his. The kiss, slow and gentle at first, becomes stronger and more urgent. It's interrupted by a wordless shriek of anger. He tears his mouth away from James's, but keeps a tight grip on his hands.

Dream-James stalks towards them. Robbie releases James's hands, and tries to move between him and the creature; the younger man tries to step in front of him. They collide, and James flings his arms around Robbie in a tight embrace. He looks at the thing that wears his face and says defiantly, " _Dilectus meus mihi et ego illi_."

This time, the unearthly shriek doesn't startle Robbie. What happens next is a different matter. The creature changes, its face no longer resembling James, but that of a dark-haired man. Then abruptly, it becomes a rosy-cheeked blonde girl, rather like the one that he thought he'd seen in the picture on the wall. He glances up, and receives another shock: the garden is empty. No hooded figure, male or female, stands before the vine-covered wall, amongst the lush flowers and graceful palms.

He looks back at the creature, which is now wearing the face of a queenly African woman. A few seconds later, it becomes a pale young man with vivid green eyes whose skin suddenly shifts to a tawny caramel colour. The changes continue, flashing by like an out-of-control slideshow. Male and female, of every race and type, and every age from teenage to mature, they have one thing in common: attractive features distorted by a hungry, predatory smile.

"I've had enough of your games," Robbie says, anger displacing fear. "Get out of here! Bugger off!" He disentangles himself from James's arms, steps forward, and aims an open-handed slap at the creature's ever-changing face—then nearly keels over when the blow passes through it like empty air.

It laughs, turns, and walks towards the wall. One moment it's standing in front of the framed picture, and the next it's inside it, once again wearing the hooded robe. Instead of assuming its earlier position in the centre of the canvas, it veers to the left. In the instant before it reaches the frame, it looks over its shoulder at them. The face beneath the hood is gaunt, almost skeletal, but it still has some remnants of beauty. It aims a lascivious grin at them, and then moves out of sight.

"Is it gone?" Robbie whispers.

"I think so?" James replies.

"Right," he says firmly, sounding much calmer than he is. "We're leaving." James doesn't move. "Get packing, man."

James shakes his head. "I'm not leaving you alone." He helps Robbie gather up his things—there isn't much—and stuff them into his duffel. They move into James's bedroom and repeat the process.

Within half an hour, they're parked in front of the hotel. James leaves Robbie in the car with the engine running and the heater on while he goes inside to return the key to the cottage. He comes back in five minutes. "I told them you had a family emergency." He hands a steaming takeaway cup to Robbie. "Drink this."

Robbie raises a brow at the commanding tone from his sergeant, but obediently takes a sip. It's strong sweet tea, hot and comforting. Before he's had more than a few mouthfuls, James is driving through the dark night in the direction of Oxford. By the time they reach the motorway, some of the fog has cleared from his brain. "What was that thing?"

"An incubus," James says tersely.

The word sounds vaguely familiar. "Some sort of sex demon?"

"Yes. The female version is called a succubus. Some legends say that they are the same being, and can change their gender at will."

"But it wasn't real," Robbie protests. "Not solid, any road."

James glances at him before returning his attention to the road. "The modern Church accepts the existence of demons, but doesn't teach seminarians much about them. I did some reading at Cambridge for a seminar on Western folklore. Historically, demonologists were divided on the issue of whether incubi are corporeal. Some said that they were insubstantial, and could only enter the dreams of their victims. Others claimed that they had physical form."

"And your prayers didn't do anything to it." Then, realising that this sounds like a criticism, he adds, "Not at first. What was that last bit of Latin?"

"A verse from the Bible."

""Get thee behind me, Satan'?" Robbie guesses.

"Erm... no." The car swerves to dodge a lorry that suddenly veers into their lane, and James mutters something under his breath that is definitely not a prayer. Robbie decides that he should shut up and let James concentrate on driving. It's two in the bloody morning, and the lad hasn't had much sleep. Robbie himself is tired, but too wound up to sleep. Nevertheless, he closes his eyes and tries to relax.

It's still dark when he feels the car slowing to a stop. They're in the car park of a Travelodge. "Where...?"

James tells him their location. They're about a third of the way to Oxford. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think I can drive any further tonight."

Robbie hears the strain in the other man's voice and silently curses himself for being a thoughtless arse. He should have taken a turn at driving, or at least suggested they get off the motorway sooner. "You've done more than enough. We'll have a proper kip and head home after breakfast."

The night clerk doesn't seem at all surprised to see them. A hotel just off the motorway must get its fair share of bleary-eyed middle-of-the-night travellers. "One room or two?"

"One," James says. He glances at Robbie. "Or if—"

"One room is fine." He's not sure if he could sleep in a room by himself tonight.

The room is modern and bland. The coverlets on the two beds are white, and the picture hanging on the wall is a print of abstract art with brightly coloured swirling shapes. It's perfect. He drops his duffel bag on the floor next to one of the beds, then turns to James. "Don't think I've thanked you yet." Although 'thanks' seems completely inadequate for what he owes James. 

James seems fascinated by the spotted blue and grey pattern of the carpet. "I didn't really do anything."

"You defended me." In the long silence that follows, Robbie understands. James didn't really mean what he said to the incubus. He saw his DI in danger, and he did what he would have done if they been facing an armed suspect. He said whatever was necessary to defuse the situation. And now he's dealing with the embarrassment of having said those things, and knowing that his DI has been lusting after him. Is there any way to salvage their partnership? For James's sake, he has to try. "Look, man—you've been a good friend..."

James raises his head. "Friend," he echoes. "I suppose..."

Is that sorrow in his face, or just weariness? "The things you said before... I know it can't have been easy. I appreciate what you did for me..."

"I did it for myself as well," James snaps. "How do you imagine I felt, seeing that thing use my face and my voice to hurt you? And knowing that you'd never be able to look at me again without seeing it?" His shoulders slump. "It was right about one thing: I am a coward. I never thought I'd be able to tell you, and when I got a chance to say the words, I said them in Latin, so you wouldn't understand."

Wait... what? He tries to remember what the demon had said to James. _"What have I done, other than to give him what he was too cowardly to ask for, and what you were too cowardly to offer?"_

If he's wrong, if he's misunderstanding... Robbie tries to still his wildly-thumping heart. "Say the words again. In English, this time."

James hesitates. "That verse from the Bible... it's from the Song of Songs. 'My beloved is mine, and I am his.'"

Robbie says steadily, "When I look at you, I don't see it, I see my James. My best mate." He takes a breath. It's his turn to move past fear. "My beloved." He huffs out a laugh. "If you're really daft enough to want me." He opens his arms in invitation, and at once James is there. He smells of sweat and stale coffee. His stubbly chin scrapes Robbie's cheek, and his body seems to be all sharp angles. He's... solid. Real.

 James sighs contentedly. "This feels like a dream."

He shakes his head. "Think I've had enough of those." Tonight, he'll sleep soundly, and in the morning, he'll awaken beside James. That awakening, that reality, will be better, and longer-lasting, than any dream.

 --- THE END ---

**Author's Note:**

> The dub!con tag is there because Robbie has erotic dreams about James, who he secretly desires. The dreams are caused by an incubus (sex demon). The dream-sex is not very explicit.
> 
> Everything I know about incubi, I learned from [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Incubus). There were a lot of opinions about their nature. One 17th century demonologist (a Franciscan friar) believed that they were not susceptible to exorcisms or afraid of holy objects.


End file.
